


Red Handed, Red Rimmed, Bare Skinned

by FrozenMemories



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Vengeance, Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e07 Mors Indecepta, Episode: s03e09 The Dead and the Dying, Fluff, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:15:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29183874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenMemories/pseuds/FrozenMemories
Summary: A series of drabbles of Agron and Nasir wearing items that belong to the other.
Relationships: Agron/Nasir
Comments: 41
Kudos: 78





	1. Red Handed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nasir is caught wearing something that belongs to Agron

Startled, Nasir recoils as soon as Agron makes his presence known inside the partitioned section of the temple he has claimed his own.

"Apologies. I was... I..." Nasir but stammers hopelessly.

"...imagining life as gladiator?"

The look on Agron’s face is gleeful, jesting even. As is the suppressed chuckle in his voice.

Nasir lets out a rueful huff.

"Umm... I... Perhaps," he relents, eyes cast to the ground. "I should not. Apologies, these belong to you."

He gestures at the loose belts around his chest. His cheeks burn with shame of having overstepped an invisibile, yet well-known line. Expecting reprimands, Nasir is surprised to find Agron stepping closer and placing gentle hands atop the leather.

"It must be worn like this," Agron offers, his hands fastening straps and adjusting the heavy weight of his sheathed sword at Nasir’s thigh. Such action only causes Nasir to blush further, the man treating him as though he stood yet a child.

"The fit is loose on you, little man." Agron’s words underline Nasir’s assessment.

"You stand as giant,” Nasir mutters, part reverent, part admiring, “With arms twice the size my own."

Laughter gently shakes Agron’s hands, heavy upon his shoulders.

"Not quite," he appeases, then takes a step back and lets his eyes roam Nasir from head to toes. His face is clearly one of adoration and his voice soft when he speaks.

"Despite ill-fit you stand most pleasing sight, clad in armor."

"Yes?"

Agron smiles. He catches hold of Nasir’s chin and leans in for a kiss - a sensation far from new, yet still exciting to Nasir.

"You shall become strong warrior soon enough,” he declares between soft presses of lips against lips, “But find armor better fitted for your size."

His words hold no condescending notion, just genuine fondness that lifts the heart.

"My wound yet troubles," Nasir remarks with regret.

"It shall heal in due time," Agron assures, his hands carefully skimming the dressing still wound around his midsection. "Now, allow me to remove straps and reclaim what is mine."

Nasir looks down with a nod.

"Apologies. Of course."

He stands idle as Agron unfastens the heavy buckle, stripping his armor from Nasir and letting it fall to his feet along with his weapons. The clang of metal upon ground lets Nasir’s head snap up in surprise.

And then Agron does as promised - claims him with his hands and mouth.


	2. Red Rimmed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing scene for _The Dead and The Dying_

Nasir but stumbles through the open flaps of his tent, haunted still by the look in Naevia’s eyes. He has known this was to happen, yet his heart refuses to believe. It cannot be. It must not be.

With heavy limbs and heavier heart, Nasir falls to the ground.

In his hands he clutches a piece of threadbare cloth. For months he has not touched, nor looked upon the long since unworn cloak. Too heavy weighed the memories it bore, of his departed lover, his absent heart.

His thumb traces around holes, meant to be mended, and pokes them.

How thoughtlessly Agron just left it behind, discarded and forgotten in his haste to pack and prepare for his march on Rome.

Nasir bites his quivering lip.

To think of the joy once it would bring, to wrap himself in Agron’s clothes and see the look of fondness and amusement on the man’s face at the sight of his little man in garments meant to fit a giant.

To think of the comfort it would offer, Agron’s smell surrounding him as if the man himself was enveloping him in a loving embrace.

Nasir’s eyes begin to brim with unshed tears as his hands caress the fabric, well-worn and dirt-caked. And when he lifts it to his face, the familiar smell yet lingers.

He had hoped never to face the certainty of Agron’s demise upon fields of battle. To be faced with it now - his love gone from this world, never to return - is pure agony.

With shaking hands he brings the cloak up over his shoulders, wraps the ends together tightly, and curls into himself.

His lips tremble violently, the more he tries to hold it in.

Until he breaks, and Agron’s name falls from his lips in a strangled sob.


	3. Bare Skinned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing scene from _Mors Indecepta_

“Come, find shelter from approaching storm,” Nasir urges, as Agron stands outside, eyes roaming the snow-covered camp and arms crossed tightly around his trembling form.

Agron stands, too proud to move, and stares into the distance.

“I yet keep eyes out for stray souls, lost out in the blizzard.”

“Any soul yet out there is beyond saving,” Nasir states, not without a tinge of regret in his voice. He admires the sentiment of Agron’s actions, yet fears they are motivated rather in his unwillingness to resolve their ongoing quarrel. Agron may have conceded, freeing Castus from his bounds, yet Nasir can tell he still holds an inexplicable grudge.

Agron merely huffs. His hands, their color long since faded from an angry red to pale blue, rub up and down his arms.

“I would yet stand by,” he mutters dismissively.

Nasir sighs. “Have it so.”

He watches a moment longer and removes the heavy scarf from around his shoulders, the harsh winds immediately biting into his skin. Still, he holds it out to Agron, nudging his arm.

“Have some measure of protection, at least,” he says with a smile.

As expected, Agron meets his offer with protest.

“It is yours.”

Nasir nods.

“I would share… To prevent fragile cock from becoming as ice.”

Repeating Agron's words back to him earns him a grin at last.

"Would you not be first to complain, should my cock fall victim to weather?”

Nasir has never been more grateful to hear one of Agron’s foolish jests.

“I would,” he simply concedes.

The corners or Agron’s mouth twitch in amusement, yet his eyes remain stoic and firm. He covers Nasir’s hand and shoves it back at him, along with his scarf.

“I would not have you freeze to death,” he says sincerely and motions for Nasir to cover himself and retreat inside the tent.

There is no use in arguing an ego the size of Agron’s, Nasir relents, yet not before the words “Stubborn fool,” have left his lips. He shakes his head and leaves Agron to the biting cold.

He soon finds refuge and warmth among familiar bodies, huddled close and breaking whispered words. He listens absentmindedly while his eyes keep darting toward the tent’s flaps, now tied close for protection.

Time passes as the wind hauls outside, seizing the walls of their shelter and making them flap loudly. Nasir grits his shattering teeth and pulls his knees up to his chest.

Suddenly a gust of wind blows in above their heads, a flurry of snowflakes in its wake. Nasir looks up to see the looming shadows of two figures in the doorway. Agron is ushering a half frozen woman inside, then turns to retie the straps. His fingers however seem too frozen for such delicate task.

Nasir rises and strides to Agron’s side.

“Have you laid fucking pride to rest at last?” he asks the shivering man.

Agron’s hands are so cold to the touch, Nasir has to wonder how he is yet alive. His lips are purple and chapped.

Agron reaches for Nasir with evident trouble, the icicles that stand his fingers almost painful against his cheeks.

Nasir unwraps his scarf once more and ties it around Agron’s unprotesting form. The man even stoops to accommodate him. Nasir then spreads his arms and pulls Agron close to his chest, sharing what sparse warmth his own body has to offer.

Agron’s frozen arms wind themselves around his back and Agron trembles inside his embrace.

Yet his breath is hot upon Nasir’s neck when he presses his cold lips to Nasir’s skin and whispers, “Gratitude.”


	4. Rain Soaked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Excerpt from the _Goatfarm_ epilogue.

Rain and wind pelt onto the roof of their humble home with force. Agron, despite having great faith in their construction, finds himself whispering to the gods to see it withstand the weather.

He has almost missed the harsh conditions, when he was far from his homelands, tortured by the dry, relentless heat that beat upon Roman sands. Yet now he curses it, knowing that Nasir is still out there, unshielded upon horseback, should he not have found shelter along the road back from the village.

Perhaps he should go out in search of him, Agron wonders. Nasir would surely chide him for making a fuss, yet Agron’s heart worries for the man. Dark clouds make it impossible to gauge position of the sun, Agron has only his intuition to guess how long Nasir has been absent. His inner restlessness tells him his lover should have long returned.

He sighs and gathers his thickest cloak, making for the door. It creaks as it gives way to welcome wetness and cold into the house.

“Fuck the gods,” Agron mutters and shields his eyes to better see. He braces for his trek through downpour and mud when in the distance he glimpses the dark outline of a moving figure. He recognizes, despite impossible sight, the familiar shape.

“Nasir!” He yells above the noise of storm and rustle of leaves. The urge to run toward him, take reins into his hand and lift him off his horse, is strong, yet common sense tells him there is no use in seeing them both soaking through.

Nasir is quick to cross the remaining distance. He unmounts with grace and leads the horse into the shed behind their house.

“By the gods, Nasir! Come quick!” Agron ushers his soaked lover through the door and sets hands to task, removing his drenched garments.

It causes slight concern that Nasir does not protest; he merely stands a trembling mess.

“You fool, why would you not seek shelter?” Agron chides, gently lifting Nasir’s chin to soften his words.

Nasir, with renewed spirits, bats his hand away and shivers once more.

“And where upon road would I find shelter, you suppose?”

His teeth shatter as Agron rubs him dry with a piece of cloth, eyes searching for signs of distress out of habit, as he drinks in the sight of Nasir, bare naked, for even his undergarments are discarded in a wet heap upon the floor.

“Come,” Agron beckons, divests of his own cloak and wraps it tightly around Nasir’s smaller frame. He rubs his hands atop the fabric, creating heated friction, before he draws Nasir into his arms.

And so they stand for a quiet while, Nasir gently shivering in Agron’s embrace.

The moment breaks when Agron leads him to the small table by the hearth.

“Sit,” he advises gently, “I shall return shortly.”

Agron walks toward the corner shelf where he retrieves a jug of wine. He struggles with the task of filling it into a pot, to be heated upon fire, but manages to spill merely a few drops. Nasir’s eyes are on him, he can feel them like daggers on his back, though he offers no aid or rebuke. He has long since learned not to provoke Agron’s pride - as Agron has learned with Nasir’s.

“This shall warm you in no time,” Agron promises as he settles beside Nasir, in wait of wine to heat.

His lover hisses and rubs his hands together, leaning closer to the flames. Dangerously close.

“Watch out, we yet need one pair of working hands between the two of us,” Agron cautions, a smile taking the serious edge off the matter.

Nasir grunts but retracts his hands marginally. He sits back and burrows into the cloak Agron has put around him, most of his face hidden beneath the seizable hood. The dampness causes his hair to curl wildly and Agron is taken with the sudden rush of affection he feels for Nasir - not that it ever dwindled over the many seasons they have spent as lovers and companions.

“You are most treasurable sight,” he offers, his hand reaching for a stray curl.

Nasir accepts the praise with downcast eyes and a smile, yet not without a defiant huff to go with it.

“All your words of flattery shall not make me learn to love this weather.”

Nasir is not one to lament and moan, though he has often made his displeasure for this bone-chilling wetness known. Agron cannot claim to fault him.

“Do you regret path taken?” he asks, “Of settling this far North?”

"Never,” Nasir vows with conviction, “Still, I would have you make necessary treks into village from now on."

His glare is dark, sparkling with both humor and truculence. A sight for sore eyes and soft heart.

"Agreed."


	5. Wed Locked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet another post canon piece. Agron has a nightly epiphany.

Agron wakes, his senses still tingling with excitement from the dream he just rose from.

“Nasir,” he urges eagerly, “Nasir.”

His lover groans and turns to burrow into his side.

“Is it morning yet?” He grumbles from beneath his thick mane of hair.

Agron gently brushes the loose strands away and bends to press a kiss to the corner of Nasir’s closed eye.

“The midst of night,” he declares gently, “I would have words.”

“Can it not wait?” Their days are decidedly laborious and Nasir is rightfully tired.

“I suppose it could, yet I have urgent wish to share.”

Nasir rubs at his eyes and slowly lifts his head.

"Use your hands, you lazy fuck. They've healed well enough." 

Agron chuckles, the rude undertone more amusing than offensive, as it comes delivered with a poorly concealed smile, that he can barely make out in the pale moonlight.

"You mistake intent,” he is quick to clarify.

"Do I?”

Nasir does not sound convinced, so Agron attempts to explain, “I had a dream.”

“A dream? You wake me for a dream? Oh Agron…”

Agron, with childlike enthusiasm, rises to his knees and settles above Nasir, taking his lover’s hands in his own.

“No, see! We were… you and I,” he fumbles for words, “It was as if… In my dream we stood as wedded couple, bound by love and law.”

Nasir’s brows furrow as he tries to keep up with the meaning of Agron’s tale.

“Spartacus was there, to give his blessing. Duro, too." He swallows the wave of pain, yet always sweeping over him at the mention of his brother. A deep breath later he has gathered himself well enough to continue, “They… It was as though they spoke to me… from the afterlife. Or maybe the gods sending a message.”

"You make no sense," Nasir replies, chuckling.

Agron huffs and tries again.

“How can I explain? It was but a feeling, like something that was meant to be, and should have been, yet never crossed the mind.”

Nasir, finally catching up with Agron’s words, breaks into a smile.

“You ask me to marry you?”

Agron grins, so broad his cheeks strain with it.

“Would you not like the notion?”

Small teeth set out to worry his lip, as Nasir seems to ponder the matter.

“So you would hold me as wife then?”

Agron frowns upon the thought - he had not considered it - then answers solemnly, “I would hold you as husband, my equal in everything.”

"Is such a thing possible?"

"I do not know,” Agron admits. He should have thought the matter through more carefully, but that has never been his fortitude. “I have heard tales…” he says instead, “yet I would reckon we have come far enough from the shackles of Roman law to be constrained by it. Are we not free now to live by our own rules and make our own decisions?”

His hands are still tangled with Nasir’s, squeezing now with urgency. Nasir tugs one loose and places it against his upper arm. Despite the darkness there is a glint in his near-black eyes, as he is holding Agron’s gaze.

“It is decided then?” 

Agron gives a shallow nod.

“If you are so inclined?”

His heart beats wild inside his chest, while the words linger between them.

“I am,” Nasir says firmly.

The kisses he rains over Nasir’s face are greedy with joy, yet soft with promise, and Nasir responds to them in kind.

They make love that night, slow and thorough, in the soft glow of the moon. And when they wake in the morning, their limbs entangled and bare to the skin, Agron thinks it more strenuous than ever before to rise from the bed they share.

In the brisk chill of dawn he blindly grabs for the first piece of cloth he can reach. The shirt draws taut across his arms and chest as he pulls it over his head, yet he does not bother bending for his own. The one he picked pleasantly surrounds him with the comforting scent of Nasir as he walks toward the hearth and crouches to stoke the fire.

“You yet wear my garments,” Nasir observes a short while later, as he approaches from behind and leans down to wind his arms around Agron’s shoulders, his chest fitted tightly against Agron’s bent back.

Head turning, he is met with his lover’s playful expression, framed by untamed hair.

“What is yours is mine and mine is yours, is that not the base idea of marriage?” he points out.

Nasir grins wide and tugs at the hems of his shirt, nimble fingers swiftly sneaking underneath.

“Perhaps. Though we do not stand married yet, and I would have you take this off, if you please.”

Agron sees no reason to object.


End file.
